The Borgia Bride

information to him, as it would upset him too greatly to know the truth about my life in Rome.

Afterwards, in my bed, I dreamed of the card the strega had drawn for me: The heart pierced by two swords- by evil, and by good. Rodrigo Borgia stood before me, smiling, and opened the breast of his white satin robe to reveal a red heart beating therein, skewered by two swords in the shape of a silver X.

One of the swords was much larger than its mate; I stepped forward and pulled it out. It came forth bloodied, but beneath the crimson stain I could easily read the legend inscribed on the blade.

EVIL .

Autumn 1496-Early Spring 1497

***

XVII

My trysts with Cesare continued uninterrupted for the next few months. Save for that troubling night in the garden when I spoke of Lucrezia and Alexander, Cesare behaved as he always had-speaking more and more of how he could no longer bear life as a cardinal. He dreamed of marriage to me, he said, and a house full of our children. I listened with unbearable yearning-and at the same time, enormous guilt. My husband apparently knew nothing of my affair with his brother, and his happy innocence tugged at my dishonest heart.

I could only assume that Cesare’s fight with his brother Juan had discouraged the latter, for Juan did not trouble me again during the hot months of August and September.

And then, as the heat broke with the month of October, I received a letter from my brother which bore on its pages much grief.

My dearest sister,

It is with the most unspeakable sorrow that I must announce the passing of our half-brother, His Majesty, King Ferrante II. He died of a severe infection of the bowels-and his wife, Queen Giovanna, is prostrate with grief, as are we all. He has already been laid to rest in a temporary tomb in Santa Chiara, while construction begins on his permanent crypt.

It is a difficult thing for me to have to write you with such sad news. Even so, both Mother and I have great hope that we might see you again in the coming months, at the coronation of His Majesty, our beloved uncle, Federico.

I could bear to read no more, but let the pages drop to the floor. Fate seemed capricious and brutal to let young Ferrandino fight so long and hard to claim his throne, only to steal it from him so quickly. Even worse, he and Giovanna had produced no heirs, so the crown was forced to revert a generation backwards, to Federico.

I now had an excuse to return to Naples, my home. Normally, I would have seized the chance-but I could not bear the thought of returning under the pall of Ferrandino’s death; nor was I eager to leave Cesare, even for an instant. So I remained in Rome, and sent my condolences to the family from afar.

The same month I learned of Ferrandino’s death, Juan Borgia was sent to war. With his jewel-encrusted sword and the title of Captain-General of the Church, he rode out of Rome accompanied by the papal army and a goodly dose of fanfare.

Success came early to him-much to Cesare’s bitter annoyance. (‘God mocks me, letting my witless brother win through accident, not skill!’) In rapid succession, the papal army seized ten rebel castles, all of them flying French colours. The Pope was giddy with delight; at dinner, he read Juan’s dispatches-all of them brimming with self- congratulatory details. Lucrezia gave her demure little smile, and nodded encouragement to her father when he grew most excited; Cesare’s lips grew tauter, thinner, until they entirely disappeared.

And then God delivered to Juan justice, in the form of a stout and fearless noblewoman named Bartolommea Orsini. She commanded the allegiance of a most powerful army, which defended her imposing fortress a hard day’s ride northeast of Rome, at Bracciano, overlooking the great lake for which the city was named. The papal army had a special interest in defeating the Orsinis: their treacherous allegiance with the French and their kidnapping of Giulia had allowed Charles to invade Rome, and prompted Alexander to order Ferrandino’s retreat to Naples. It was time, His Holiness had decided, to teach the Francophile Orsinis a lesson. There were other rebellious noble families who held lands within the Papal States-and the Orsinis were intended to be a lesson to them all, of what would happen to those who did not pay homage to the Pope as both their sacred and secular ruler.

Cesare relayed the entire incident to me with great detail and relish. Juan’s initial success at war filled the Duke of Gandia, Captain-General of the Church, with an even more boundless hubris. He wrote a threatening letter to Bartolommea; she laughed aloud and spat on it. He wrote imperious missives to her army, demanding their surrender, promising them safety if they deserted their posts and came to fight on the side of the Papal States.

Bartolommea’s men roared at the notion.

‘Come,’ they said. ‘Come and fight. Come and taste real war, Captain-General.’

Juan studied the massive parapets of the Bracciano castle; he even drew up simplistic battle plans for storming the walls. But in the end, according to Cesare, who had read the letter the great Captain-General sent to His Holiness, Juan realized that the situation here was quite different: there was a chance his army might lose.

And so, entirely without pomp, his army left Bracciano in the night, and instead headed north, to a less imposing castle defended by a less imposing army at Trevignano. Bartolommea, victorious, left the French flag flying.

At Trevignano, Juan’s men waged a fierce battle while he sent directives from the sidelines. It was not easy, but Alexander’s army took the castle and sacked the town.

No time was permitted for rest, for in the meantime, more members of the Orsini clan, led by the patriarch Carlo, had raised money from the French and recruited an army composed of Tuscans and Umbrians. They moved south towards the fortress at Soriano, held by an Orsini cardinal who felt the Pope should limit his powers to the Church, and keep his nose out of the earthly affairs of the nobles in the Papal States.

Juan’s army was obliged to meet their enemies there, several days’ ride due north of Rome. The Orsinis were clever strategists; they quickly lured part of the Captain-General’s troops away from the others, overwhelmed them, and launched a counterattack. This time, Juan was caught in the midst of the fighting and unable to flee to the safety of the sidelines. He took a slight wound to his shoulder, and lost five hundred men.

This was apparently an outcome he had never considered. He retreated at once, and his army had surrendered.

Now, at the dinner table, Alexander fumed; he rose from his chair, paced, and shouted-at Juan for his idiocy, at himself for not having invested in more men, more horses, more swords. He would empty every coffer in Rome, he swore, he would even sell his tiara…

But in the end, His Holiness was a practical man. He struck a deal with the Orsinis, accepting fifty thousand gold ducats and two more fortresses in exchange for the Pope’s promise to make no further war. Alexander also agreed to ask my uncle, King Federico, to release Orsini prisoners who were being held in Naples.

In the meantime, he called Juan home.

In Rome, the autumn days are cool, a promise of the chill winter to come. Many in Italy would call such weather temperate, for snow has only rarely limned the ancient buildings and piazzas. But I was accustomed to winters that varied little from summers, and so I looked ahead to the approaching season with mild dread.

I spent as much time away from my ladies and to myself as possible: I have never been talented at dissimulation, and my discovery of the true nature of the relationship between Lucrezia and her father left me troubled. I secretly grew angry at Cesare: were I male, I told myself, I would have slain Alexander long ago to protect Lucrezia, and damn the consequences.

In reality I too shared complicity-for I kept the terrible secret in order to save my own skin. I was no better; I